The Monela Affair
by MitternachtMeinung
Summary: Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin are assigned an under-the-table mission. They come to an understanding as well. Slash present as well as violence and blood...I mean, c'mon, they're agents.
1. Act Ia

Even in a dark alley outside a seedy-looking restaurant, Napoleon took his sweet time chatting on the communicator every time they made contact. Sometimes it was because of caution, but most often he was charming every girl UNCLE employed before finally proceeding with his mission. Illya did not mind this entirely, as it kept them away from him and out of his way when he was trying to proceed on his own missions, but it certainly bothered him that Napoleon initiated things without any promise to them, without a relationship beyond a day or two at a time. Illya wasn't quite sure why the other agent felt so free to do so, and he didn't want to upset his friend, but he needed to ask him one day. Then, as he turned off the engine of his car, he caught the tail end of the conversation, and gritted his teeth. Not again.

"Then I'll take Vanessa back to Illya's then. Yes sir. Yes sir. No, but—yes sir. Good night." Solo hung up the phone, and moseyed back to where his partner stood fuming.

"Napoleon, I have told you time and again that I do not like these empty-headed American girls in my apartment. They cause more irritation than pleasure to me," the Russian hissed, his foot tapping an angry staccato pattern on the pavement.

"Oh, lighten up, Illya," Solo replied, smiling. "This one will even appeal to you, I think. And at any rate, we must be off. We, or rather, I, have a meeting with the charming Vanessa Allende in at seven o'clock sharp."

Illya eyed his friend's formal wear. "Were you planning something impressive?"

"Oh no, just expensive. Speaking of which, where's your tuxedo?"

"Oh, I must have missed that memo," Illya lied easily. "It's at the cleaner's at the moment."

"Solo sighed. "Well, there's nothing to be done. You'll have to rely on your smashing good looks to blend in." Illya looked at Napoleon sharply, but nothing came from the American agent's face but amiable blankness, a sure sign wheels were turning behind that ridiculous grin.

"If you think so," the Russian muttered, checking his watch. As they climbed into his car, he added, "Where is this meeting then?"

"The Bellas Hotel."

"The Bellas—Napoleon, that's downtown! We'll be late!" Illya growled. "I suppose you planned it this way. We might have to break a land-speed record or two."

Solo smiled his trademark lazy smile. "Oh, but I'm sure it will be fun."

"You're not the one driving the streets of New York in a European-manufactured car," Illya grumbled, but gunned the engine anyway.

As the agents entered the hotel, the first thing both noticed were the large number of waiters in attendance, all wearing improbably high and wide shoulder pads, surrounding the large, airy hall at which an upper-class party appeared to be taking place. "Somehow I have a feeling they didn't bother to get their concealed-carry permits," Napoleon murmured.

"We'd best tread carefully. What does this Vanessa look like?" Illya muttered back.

"Tall, blonde, blue eyes, in a red dress," Napoleon replied.

Illya closed his eyes in frustration. That description fit nearly half the women at this little soiree. He eyed the door longingly. How to trip and injure himself just badly enough that—

"Oh, Vanessa?" Napoleon interrupted. "Sorry. That's the contact who will take me to Vanessa. I have no idea what the woman herself looks like."

Illya threw up his hands in frustration. "So there is nothing for me to do, then?"

"Well—"

"Napoleon, if you need me, I will be sitting at the bar." The Russian stalked off moodily, leaving a bemused American and several interested women in his wake.

Exactly twenty minutes later, a woman fitting the contact's description approached his partner. Illya sized her up. On what he always referred to internally as the Napoleon Scale of Beauty, she was a perfect ten. Her face had an elegant cast, her body of a perfect shape, and her hair was coiffed in such a perfect style it seemed as if she had a team of hairdressers waiting just out of sight. Her dress, in addition, was of a classic older design that flattered a lovely hourglass-shaped figure. The Russian went back to his drink; leave it to Napoleon to find the beautiful contact. His generally turned out to be middle-aged thieves and cat burglars.

"Mr. Solo, I've been told to take you to Vanessa," the blonde smiled. "My name is Amy Turner."

"Well, you obviously know me, Amy," Solo said, turning the charm up a notch. "Can I get you a drink so we can blend in a little better?"

"You're welcome to get one for yourself, but I don't drink myself. It damages the figure."

Napoleon laughed appreciatively. "You are indeed too beautiful to ruin in that way. Let me go get a quick drink, and I'll meet you by the palm trees in three minutes."

"Excellent," Amy replied, smiling, and melted into the dancers. Napoleon shuddered slightly. Women as forward as that always frightened him slightly. There was no edge he had over them, no leverage to persuade. He wandered towards the bar, and slid into the seat next to Illya.

"Are you finished?" Illya asked caustically, "or do you need to take her to bed as well?"

Napoleon drew back, hurt. "That was a bit much," he retorted, though without any real heat. "I needed to establish contact."

"And I suppose ogling is a form of code now, then," Illya muttered, watching the level of vodka (Tovaritsch, neat. None of this fancy American nonsense.) drop yet again.

"What's bothering you tonight?" Now Napoleon was beginning to feel annoyed. Illya being irritated on missions involving helpless (or relatively helpless) females was commonplace. Illya being openly rude was another matter altogether.

Illya refused to look at him. "Nothing. I…I'm tired, that's all."

Napoleon headed towards the palm tree as nonchalantly as he could appear, holding his half-empty martini and smiling at all who made eye contact. Just as he reached the trees, Amy emerged from a room down the hallway leading away from the party and into the hotel. His breath caught in his throat; she had retouched her makeup, and was truly dazzling in the dim light from the dance floor. Her skin seemed to glow softly, and Napoleon wondered if he had accidentally worn a pair of rose-tinted glasses to the meeting. She smiled. "Come, Mr. Solo. Let me take you to Vanessa."

They made their way down a corridor, stopping once to listen for a guard, then climbed two flights of stairs. Amy said little, and Solo didn't want to disturb her. She was concentrating hard on something, and he had a feeling it wasn't him.

"Here we are," she said softly, and opened the door of a hotel room.

"But I thought I was—" His words withered and died as he saw what was in the room. A woman was suspended in ice, her eyes rolled back in her head, her fingers pressed flat against the glass walls. Her face had the most intense look of agony Solo had ever seen, and he had seen many in his time. She was either unconscious or dead, but which he was unable to determine. She certainly was not breathing.

"What…what happened?" he finally asked. "Why is…she like this?"

"She was our most important operative in the South American country of Monela. It's been a brutal dictatorship for almost thirty years now, but we thought she was safe." Amy shuddered. "We found her dying in the back of the extraction plane. Someone poisoned her with a derivative of strychnine."

"My God," muttered Napoleon. "She looks so—"

"Alive? She is, for the moment, suspended using the most cutting-edge of cryogenics technology. That's the reason for all this secrecy. We've put it out that she's dead to the media so that she'll be relatively safe. However, we have some important information on a data disk that she was unable to retrieve when we airlifted her out." Amy crossed her arms, and looked at Solo steadily. "I need you to do two things. One is to get that sulky Russian from the bar and ask him if he can reverse the damage done from the poison. He's the leading expert in strychnine poisoning in UNCLE, did you know that? And then the other thing is to find that data disk. It has information vital to the security of our organization and may be the key we need to destroy the dictatorship in place once and for all."

Napoleon nodded slowly. "I can understand everything about this mission but two factors. Would you mind explaining them?"

"I'm here to help."

"Good. First of all, why did this not come directly from Mr. Waverly? Why are you acting as the liaison? And secondly, Monela is on the no-go list for agents of UNCLE…ah, I think I see," Napoleon trailed off. "So this is more involved that I thought. Who else knows?"

Amy smiled crookedly. "The pilot and copilot died soon afterwards. I was her only contact in Monela, due to the situation there. And I'm sure Waverly knows what I ate for breakfast and when the milk in my refrigerator goes sour. But politics being what they are, I decided to keep it as far removed as I could from him. He's the best mission chief we've ever had, and I don't want him to disappear any time soon."

Napoleon nodded in sympathy. He'd done one too many re-extractions to pick up a stray Russian to have Waverly not notice, and somehow the great man was always looking the other way. "I'll go collect Illya then. He'll be able to give you an answer one way or another after a few minutes, and then we'll go disk-hunting."

"Be careful," Amy replied softly. "The reason I tracked you two down is because, besides Kuryakin's expertise with poison, the top pair of agents working together are you two. Individually, you both have your own personal strengths and weaknesses, but together you are unstoppable." She took a deep breath, and sighed a little, shakily. "I suppose that's why Kuryakin was upset, then?"

Napoleon looked at her, puzzled. "Upset about meeting you was what I thought. I have a…er, habit, of picking up girls at bars. He thought this was one of those times that I dragged him along for, I guess."

Amy laughed a little, and shook her head. "You really don't get it, Solo. That's fine; you'll figure it out soon enough, I'm sure." She motioned him towards the door. "Now go get him before he drinks the bartender out of Tovaritsch."


	2. Act Ib

Fifteen minutes later, after peeling Illya from the barstool and slapping a cup of strong coffee in his hand, Solo took his partner up to the room where Vanessa was being kept, for want of a better phrase. Illya took one look at the woman's face and swallowed half a cup of still-hot coffee in shock. "What in the name of all that is holy…"

"Nothing holy about it," Solo said, wincing. "She was poisoned with—"

"Strychnine, I know," Illya interrupted, amused in some dark way, circling the glass cylinder. "It's a very painful way to die, you know. Your muscles spasm uncontrollably and eventually you die of simple heart failure. And—aha."

"What did you find?" Amy asked, entering the room.

"Point of entry. There is a small puncture wound under her left arm, close to the heart." Illya shook his head. "I'm sorry, but there is nothing to be done for her. She will die. The poison is too close to her heart and the moment she warms, her muscles will begin their spasms once again."

A soft moan issued from Amy's mouth; she ran to the bathroom, and shut the door behind her. The agents heard her crying seconds later. Solo smiled crookedly. "She's not a field agent, that's for sure."

"Mmm," Illya muttered, focusing closely on another portion of Vanessa's face. "Napoleon, look at this." When Napoleon saw what his partner was so interested in, his eyes nearly popped from their sockets.

"Amy, we need to ask you some questions," Napoleon said urgently to the shut door. "Please come back out."

Amy poked her head from the bathroom, still dabbing at her eyes. "I'm…I'm sorry," she apologized. "I—we were good friends, and I…"

"That is not important right now," Illya interrupted heartlessly. "Did Vanessa ever have contact with any chemical waste? Er, did she have contact with carboys, dioxins, anything at all?"

"She did use photography equipment, I know that," Amy said, hiccupping a little. "Why?"

"Vanessa was incapacitated by a factor of two things: an injection of strychnine, and here, a second chemical stain, just below her right eye. From the color of the skin surrounding it, I would estimate that it is a severe chelating agent. Presumably, she was first abducted in the lab and interrogated with her own photography materials, then somehow escaped to the plane and was poisoned soon afterward. That's THRUSH for you. Waste not, want not," the Russian concluded bitterly. "At any rate, the Vanessa Allende you know is long gone."

Amy sank to a chair, eyes red, but finally holding her composure again. "Th-thank you both," she said, voice still trembling, but firmer. "I…I was hoping there was a way to bring her back."

Illya shook his head. "Even if the strychnine could be removed somehow, the chelating agent has turned her brain to mush, slowly and painfully. She's better dead to you."

Napoleon's hand tightened on his partner's arm, who looked at him in surprise. "Let's go, Illya," he growled.

"What's this about—" Illya began, but Napoleon cut him off.

"I'll inform you on the way to the airport. Good luck, Amy."

"Good luck, gentlemen," Amy said softly, as they raced out of the building. "And good luck with each other."

Illya drove while Napoleon cleared the mission with Waverly as a week of leave (he deserved to know where his agents were going, after all. He didn't need to know the reason,) and negotiated with the charter plane company for a flight into Monela for the remainder of the drive using Illya's car telephone. When he finally finished, Illya did not look at him, and Napoleon felt that engaging the Russian at this time would prove, if not dangerous for his own health, unwise.

Finally, Illya broke the silence. "Why, Napoleon?" he asked wearily. "I came to UNCLE to gain some sort of freedom from the skullduggery that is so present in my mother country. Why is there such underhanded nonsense in UNCLE as well? Or is it for the blonde?"

"This one's political," Napoleon replied. "Even if Mr. Waverly expressly forbade us going, we'd go anyway for Amy."

"Ah, so it is for the blonde, then."

Napoleon's hand hit the dashboard. "No, it's not!"

Illya glared at him. "Damage my car and you'll beat out the dents yourself. Control your anger, Napoleon. If you have a better reason for working in this manner, then express it before I throw you out of my car altogether."

Napoleon was silent for a long minute, then emotionlessly told Illya the story Amy had told him. While nothing on the Russian's face changed externally, his entire demeanor stepped from Defcon II down to Idle in thirty seconds. Far be it from him to apologize, though. "Why you did not just say this at the beginning of the mission I do not know," he griped, mostly to himself.

Napoleon felt the muscles in his face begin to relax, stiff from tension. When Illya was angry, there was no way to tell what would happen. Now that things seemed to be calmer, he felt he could actually stretch his arms slightly. Unfortunately, after almost hitting Illya in the face with his flailing stretch, he wisely decided to keep his arms at this side until they reached the airport.

As the agents walked up to the ticket counter, Illya surreptitiously glanced around the small terminal area. Three women sat, chatting, in warm winter jackets. Probably tourists. Several men in the area of the coffee bar. Not surprising. There was only one man who stood out slightly, and he was reading a newspaper by himself. Normally this would not bother Illya, but the combination of the South American newspaper and the obvious shoulder holster under a slim-fitting suit was too obvious to discount. He nudged his partner, who nodded almost imperceptibly.

"Engage?" Illya murmured.

"No, let's see what he does," Napoleon replied in kind.

After a few minutes, the man very obviously folded up his newspaper and, with a slight nod to the UNCLE agents, left the room. Illya made as if to follow, but Napoleon held him back. "Our plane leaves in ten minutes, my friend. We'll catch him next time."

As the agents strode across the tarmac to the waiting ten-seater, a chatter of machine gun fire rattled across their path. Illya immediately ran forward, pulling his pistol from its holster, and crouched behind a packing case, while Napoleon ran to the side behind a pile of luggage stacked high. "I'm sorry, ladies," he said apologetically to himself, then threw a handbag into the air. Tracking the trajectory of the answering stutter, he sighted and loosed three quick shots at the man from the terminal. The man looked up and saw him, then grinned and ducked behind a brick wall to reload.

Meanwhile, Illya crept forward in a zig-zag pattern, attempting to trap the shooter with a simple pincer movement between himself and Napoleon. Finally, he was rewarded with the sight of an unprotected back. He smiled his wolfish smile, and leapt onto the crate and down onto the man's neck and back in one fluid movement.

Napoleon ran forward to help, but there was no need. The man's neck was broken, and Illya stood next to him, breathing heavily, hands clenched tightly. Napoleon's eyes widened. This was an Illya he'd never seen, never worked with. This was the side that only came out under extreme distress or tension, and it was going to get them both killed. But then, after three long seconds, Illya consciously released his hands and turned to his partner. "I didn't expect that would kill him. I apologize."

The enormity of an apology from a Russian, and especially Illya, made Napoleon smile slightly, and while not feel better about the situation, at least a little calmer. "Apology accepted. Let's go find that disk."


	3. Act IIa

The plane was adequate on the inside for the agents' needs. Illya tossed his carry-all behind a seat, immediately reclined the chair and closed his eyes. Napoleon threw him a sideways look and was about to speak, but then a stewardess walked down the aisle with her checklist for tickets. Illya felt his blood pressure rise as he eyed her through slitted lids. Tall, yes. Relatively generous bosom, yes. Flattering, if not overemphasizing clothing, yes. And of course, blonde. Interestingly, with a Spanish accent of some kind that he could not identify. He gritted his teeth and tried to fall asleep through sheer willpower, but that was of course impossible with her standing so close and babbling about safety procedures. As she passed by his chair, she paused briefly, then continued to Napoleon's chair. That bothered him a little, but he couldn't think why. There were too many things to think about anyway. It was probably nothing.

After she finally left, Illya cracked an eyelid, then sat back up and pulled a book from inside his jacket pocket, but he knew he would not read in peace for long. Napoleon, when confronted with someone holding an open book, immediately felt the urge to talk to the person about anything and everything. While this did not particularly bother Illya, it annoyed him that the topic Napoleon would inevitably choose would related to his actions earlier that day.

Sighing, he closed his book and rubbed his forehead tiredly. Why had he reacted that way, honestly? It was a visceral, animal-like response, far outside of his normal collected personality. He didn't want to think about any reason, but just to move on from it. He knew, deep inside, what the reason was, but to even think those thoughts was a chance of being caught. He hid every emotion he could behind his deliberately aloof manner, but in times like this, when he felt unsure of everyone and everything, he sometimes lost it, if only for a few minutes.

The main problem with this was that when he regained his control, he would inevitably find someone dead or dying. It was what he had been trained to do, and, not to put too fine a point on it, he was a master at it.

"Illya? Ill-y-a?" Napoleon's voice finally broke through his thoughts.

"What?" he replied irritably. "I was thinking. You should try it sometime."

"We've just crossed the border into Monela. We'll be landing at the airfield outside the capital city in twenty minutes."

Illya smiled. "Good, we're moving forward then. San Alamar is supposed to be one of the most beautiful modern cities in South America."

"If you like dictatorships, I suppose so," Napoleon replied. "I—"

At that moment, the entire plane lurched, then fell forward into a steep nosedive. The agents looked at each other and ran for the cabin.

Inside, they found the pilot and copilot writhing in their chairs, flailing their arms and legs spasmodically. The stewardess was nowhere to be seen. Napoleon tried to pull the pilot from his chair but was smacked in the back of the head for his efforts. As Illya wrestled with the other man, the stewardess emerged from the area near the back of the plane for luggage.

Napoleon felt his blood chill as she threw open the emergency exit and jumped out of the plane wearing the sole parachute stocked for this type of plane. He had known something was wrong, but he had been so occupied with his own worries to recognize the real problem. He muttered something under his breath, then forcibly lifted the pilot from his chair and threw him to the ground. Illya placed a hand on the fallen man's chest, shook his head and produced two cyanide capsules. Napoleon grimaced, but began to assess the damage.

When Illya finally managed to get the copilot out of his chair and helped along the way to peace, he looked to Napoleon expectantly for directions, as always. Napoleon, tense as he was, felt relieved. At least that hadn't changed. "Open all flaps and extend all ailerons!" Illya nodded and began to flick various switches.

Napoleon threw his entire body weight against the yoke, every fiber of his being screaming to jump out the emergency exit like the stewardess. Knowing at this altitude it would be certain death didn't help. And knowing that the gap between him and his partner was growing added nothing to the equation.

"Napoleon, we're going to die, aren't we." It wasn't a question.

"I…it's a possibility," the American agent gritted. "Why? Do you have any secrets you want out in the open? Confession?" Illya opened his mouth to reply, but Napoleon held up a hand. "Wait a sec."

Slowly but surely, the plane's nose had leveled. While the plane's belly was only twenty feet above the ground, they had indeed survived another day.

Napoleon eased the bird a little higher in the air, then turned to his partner. "What were you saying, Illya?"

The Russian stared at him for much too long, then turned away to look out through the cockpit. "Nothing."

"C'mon," Napoleon nudged. "What did you want to say?"

Illya's mouth crooked into a grin, but there was no humor there. "You have no idea, and I would prefer it to stay that way, at least for now, for both of our sakes and our friendship," he said simply. "If I knew when I was about to die, and had no possible way out, I would tell you. But as it is, we need to complete our mission." And he refused to speak again.

Napoleon ran a hand through his hair in frustration. What could he possibly do? It was absolutely driving him insane. This tension in the air was different than pre-mission stress, hell, it was different than anything he'd ever experienced, except for—

A thought occurred to him, and he glanced sharply at Illya, who was staring out the window again. He began to speak, then thought better of it. Even if that was the reason, it would be better to talk of that after such a dangerous mission.

If they both came out alive, of course.


	4. Act IIb

Official slash from here on out. Heads up for any readers who may be offended.

The agents landed the plane in a small, little-known airfield commonly used by smugglers a few kilometers from the outskirts of San Alamar. Illya was still remaining enigmatic, and Napoleon had to remind himself more than once to focus on the mission. But—he grinned—he could treat Illya's secret as secondary mission. For the good of their relationship, perhaps, as a justification. That would be fun.

"Should we check into a hotel, or proceed directly to the photography lab?" Illya asked suddenly. Napoleon was startled at the abruptness of the question, but recovered quickly.

"Well, if we do, we can relax a little. It's not a good idea to be tense for too long, and we can check in with Amy before we go after that disk." Illya's shoulders stiffened at the name.

He responded tonelessly, "That makes sense." And that was that. There was none of the wit and energy that Illya normally possessed, no banter and light insults swung back and forth. Perhaps that was what bothered Napoleon the most, the fact that he wasn't behaving like himself. Perhaps that was what drove his actions.

Perhaps he just knew what needed to be done.

The hotel was a sandstone construction, washed yellow on the inside, with a soft, wide bed and a desk and chair set, and mercifully microphone-and-bug-free. Illya flopped onto the bed, as he always did, and wrinkled his nose. "Surprisingly, the blankets are washed."

Napoleon raised his eyebrows. "Really? They must've heard we were coming."

Illya lay back and stretched, body taut against the bedframe. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to lie on this bed. First the car, then the plane, then the walking. I've probably ruined this pair of shoes before their time."

Napoleon smiled. One of the many things he admired about his partner was his remarkable ability to bounce back from lows within a matter of minutes. Sure enough, after complaining a minute longer about the condition of his feet, he sat up and stretched, then relaxed, flopping backwards again with pleasure. "What shall we do next? I for one would like a meal at some point in the near future."

"I thought checking in with Amy would be a wise thing to do," Napoleon replied. "She may have some information on the stewardess."

"I really do not like that woman," Illya muttered, more out of habit than any other reason. He was feeling optimistic, like the mission would be a success, that he could get back to his books in New York before…

"Amy or the stewardess?" Napoleon prodded gently. There it was, he was almost at that point…

"Either. Women in general. Blondes in particular," Illya said thoughtlessly, finally relaxing enough for banter. "They distract you from me. I'd much rather have your atten—" His voice trailed off as he realized what had just come out of his mouth.

There was silence in the room for a second. Illya's face was white as paper, while Napoleon's seemed to be blank, or at least relatively unemotional as he sorted through his various responses.

After several more seconds, each like an eternity to the Russian, Napoleon sat down next to him on the bed. "So that's your secret, then?" he said softly.

His partner's face was almost entirely devoid of color. It was locked in a mask of—Napoleon squinted, and realized in empathy—terror. "I…I can't stop you if you want to kill me now," he said, his voice barely more than a croak. "When my commanders in Russia find out, they'll certainly end me themselves."

Napoleon sighed. "Illya, if I wanted to kill you I would have done it years ago. We're partners, remember? And…" He swallowed uncomfortably. "I…I've noticed it for a while, to be honest."

Illya passed a hand over his eyes. "Черт возьмиi, was I so obvious? Napoleon, I will be arrested the moment I return to UNCLE, returned to the USSR, interrogated, tortured and chemically castrated. As it is, I will end up serving hard labor in northern Siberia and die at the age of forty from lung failure or something." As he sat up and began to fiddle with his tie, a sure sign he was stressed, Napoleon stretched out a hand and held his, preventing him from adjusting it further. Blue eyes, startled and strong, looked into soft brown ones designed for acuity in other things than vision.

"You know," Napoleon said conversationally, "While women are interesting, you'd be surprised how few of them actually come to bed with me when they realize I'm after information rather than casual sex. Gentlemen prefer blondes, after all, don't they? I happen to like blondes myself of the same gender, and one in particular."

"Napoleon," Illya began, but his companion held up a hand and began to unbutton the Russian's shirt, gently, slowly.

Illya drew back, flinching from his touch.

Napoleon stopped, taken aback. "I didn't realize that would bother you," he said quietly.

Illya stood and paced distractedly. "For twenty-five years, before I joined UNCLE, I lived in constant fear of discovery, that I would at any minute be taken back to the USSR. My loyalty lies with Mr. Waverly, never have any doubt about that. But there are ways to discover my—situation. You and I both know that."

Napoleon nodded wearily. He did, only too well. "Well, what do you propose to do? We won't be able to hide it forever. And I do mean we, Illya. It's not one-sided, if that's a worry to you." He stood, and stood toe-to-toe with Illya, and stroked his blond hair softly. When it came down to it, Illya was one of the most appealing men Napoleon had ever encountered, and not just aesthetically. "When you're ready, I—"

Illya grabbed the American agent's tie and pulled him into a hard, long kiss. Napoleon was half-expecting it, and wrapped his arms around the other man's leaner frame. Illya responded in kind, digging his hands into his partner's shoulder blade area, still not satisfied. When Napoleon finally broke the kiss, panting slightly, Illya's eyes were burning and his face was flushed with the level of emotions pounding through his blood. "Napoleon, help me," he whispered. "If we become…whatever we will be, will you help me keep pretending?"

Napoleon leaned forward and kissed the younger man's forehead. "Of course. It'll be just as hard for me. We'll do it together, all right?"

Illya took in a deep, shaky breath. "Of-of course."

Napoleon ran a hand down his partner's back; the shiver in response was one of fear, not of pleasure. Napoleon bit his lip, and realized that 'Where were we?' would probably earn him a swift right to the jaw. Instead, he tightened his arms. The physical comfort alone was enough to make him feel slightly better.

Illya tucked his head under Napoleon's head, and the blond hair in Napoleon's vision smelled of pine and sweat and typical Russian soap. "Just…just hold me," the Russian said miserably. Napoleon held him, and kissed the top of his head, and waited until his shoulders stopped shaking, and another minute after that. It was one thing to be caught; it was another to be caught crying.

i Roughly, "damn it."


	5. Act IIc

Last chapter slash, this chapter blood and guts? Sorry! I am not trying to offend anyone, I promise!

The photography lab was dark and small, an ideal place for an UNCLE agent. Above a busy shop, the noise from below would mask any apparatus that Vanessa would have to use in her surveillance. Since they were not official UNCLE agents at the moment, Napoleon and Illya had been forced to break in to the lab. Clad in black turtlenecks and trousers, the agents turned the room over from beginning to end separately, then began to sort through the surprisingly minimal damage.

The only clues to the struggle that had occurred earlier that week were several papers scattered around the room in a random order, presumably disturbed by the attackers. Napoleon prodded at some half-finished prints, still in their chemical bath. "She obviously was interrupted midway through her process."

Illya nodded, examining some aerial shots. "I would agree. If they had not found the disk they would have killed her, rather than let her get away, I would think."

"She didn't get away," Napoleon reminded him. "She was killed afterwards in the plane."

Illya shook his head. "I disagree that the attack and the murder were related. The attack was a political sting, an attempt to contain information. The actual murder reeks of THRUSH." Napoleon looked somewhat confused, so Illya continued, "THRUSH uses poison, not armed men, to gain information. I think the woman on the plane was an agent of THRUSH, and was, I would guess, a stewardess or flight attendant on the flight Vanessa took. Does that make more sense? I would surmise that the disk contained information embarrassing to the Monelan government, but vital to THRUSH, and that is why she was killed—she was too valuable to let live."

His friend nodded grimly; it definitely fit the THRUSH psych profile. "I suppose we won't find the disk here, then."

Illya shrugged. "It won't hurt to look."

As the two agents sorted through the papers and prints on the various surfaces in the room, they found several photographs that were of the same building. Without speaking, just anticipating the movement of the other man, they piled together all the documents relating to that structure.

Finally, after an extremely long five minutes, Napoleon could bear it no longer. Paperwork and filing were beyond boring to a man who was one of Waverly's best field agents. Communication was his weapon, and silence was something he could not tolerate, even if it was a comfortable quiet moment between friends, or—

He bit his tongue. There was no time for that at the moment, not during a mission. _Focus_, he told himself. _There's time for that later._ "Found the negatives yet?"

"They're here," Illya replied, startled, a few seconds later, finding a miniature folder taped under the bottom of the desk and checking them against the light. "I'm somewhat surprised the attackers didn't take them, but if they were solely after the disk that makes sense. I'll put them in the hollow heel of my shoe for analysis later. From what I can tell, they're aerial photographs of a single warehouse in downtown San Alamar."

"Those are mostly what I've found," Napoleon said, interested despite himself. "A woman keeps coming up as well."

"The stewardess?" Illya smiled slightly. He knew something was wrong with that woman. He hadn't known what it was, but his intuition was still working correctly, a relief to him.

Napoleon nodded, oblivious. "The same. I think she's a —"

Suddenly, the revving of a car engine broke the relative quiet of a late-night burglary. Shouts and pounding feet were heard from outside the building. Napoleon glanced out the window and grimaced. "We've got company." Five or six men were running to the fire escape from a black unmarked car, wearing some sort of navy blue jumpsuit, and carrying modified rifles with large red sights fastened to the barrel. "I think they're THRUSH men."

"Good. I've been bored." Illya sighted on the leading man, and fired his Walther. The man clutched at his chest, red and black rapidly staining his torso and face as his organs self-destructed internally. Two men stopped to help him, and Illya dropped them as well, barely bothering to aim. The blood was a dark navy blue, just outside the streetlight's range, and it crept slowly, seeping life away like Death himself come to visit.

Illya stopped to breathe when the THRUSH men were out of range, and saw Napoleon staring at him in disbelief, and—was that shock? "We're not under UNCLE now, Napoleon," Illya said simply. "This is what we're supposed to do for a living, in case you have forgotten. No politics, no niceties. Just kill or be killed. And I for one would prefer to live."

Just then, four men burst into the room, knocking the door from its hinges. Napoleon took up a karate stance, while Illya fired his pistol twice more, killing one and injuring another, before his gun jammed. Cursing violently in Russian, he launched himself at the closest man, fingers outstretched, aiming for the eyes.

Napoleon, meanwhile, was having some difficulty with his opponent. It was nothing he couldn't get out of, but the man was so damned short and quick that it was hard for him to land a blow. The small man could land multiple jabs to his torso simply by compressing his body. Finally, after a particularly nasty jab to the left ribs, Napoleon swung a tight left that connected with his opponent's head. It made a nasty cracking sound, and blood trickled from the corner of his skull. Napoleon felt ill at the sight, but turned his attentions to the other three men—

Rather, one man, who was holding a gun to a barely conscious Illya's head. The Russian was breathing, and his eyes were mostly tracking, but his left hand was covered in gore. He saw Napoleon looking, and smiled a little, inclining his head at the man sprawled on the floor to his right. Napoleon's knees nearly gave way; the man's eyes had been torn from his sockets, and the skin from the top of his mouth was ripped from the lips up past his nose. He looked at his partner with a new respect, and a slight fear. Not that he would do that to a friend, but the fact that he was capable of doing such a thing, frightened Napoleon. He could not, and would not, do that.

But at the same time, could he really say that? Napoleon had never experienced the kind of life Illya had before he became a member of UNCLE. He had been a mid-ranking KGB agent, if memory served. He'd probably been trained in worse, if that was possible, and the fact that Illya would not attack without incentive was what made him a terrible KGB man, and made him redeemable in UNCLE's eyes.

Banishing the thoughts of the past, Napoleon raised his hands in surrender despite Illya's feeble shakings of the head. It wouldn't help his partner to be a hero.

Napoleon led the way down the stairs to the waiting car. "What do you want to do about him?" he asked the driver, referring to Illya, still out of it enough to need help from Napoleon to make it down the stairs. The man grunted impatiently and motioned them both into the car. As they slid onto the smooth seats, Illya groaned; his head hit Napoleon's shoulder, out for the time being. Napoleon felt his fury building, but kept it under control until his partner could recover enough to escape. He asked a question or two, but received only silence in reply.

Once the agents were both inside, the man in front relaxed enough to mutter something in rapid Spanish to the driver, who relayed the instructions over a handheld radio. The only word Napoleon caught was "sangre;" he assumed they were discussing how to clean up the blood.

The man in front turned around after the message was relayed, and delivered a sharp jab to Napoleon's jaw. As the man crumpled sideways into his friend, he apologized silently. _I'm sorry, Illya. I underestimated this mission. I really just wanted a quiet job. I hadn't expected this kind of treatment and I wish I had the time to tell you why I really chose this mission._

_ Maybe you know already, though. I told Waverly we were going on vacation for a reason. I wanted to get to know you better. I think I do now, but I also feel like I hurt you. Please, Illya. Don't shut me out. I'm the great communicator, after all. Let me in._

_ I love you._


	6. Act IIIa

It was too bright in the room for daylight, and the bed he was lying on was too hard to be anything but a cell bunk. Illya opened his eyes slowly, using every part of his senses to stay aware of what was going on around him. He moved his fingers along the edge of the bed. Metal, probably. Most likely aluminum. He sniffed. The air smelled dry and dusty, unlived-in for the most part. He listened intently for several seconds, then relaxed. There was no pacing to be heard; perhaps there was no guard.

He sat up gingerly, then swung his legs over the edge of the bunk, and winced. His jaw was definitely somewhat sore, and he was certain one of his ribs was broken, but there was nothing to be done about those. He wiped his face, and felt a prickly sensation on his fingers. He rubbed at it, and dried blood came free from his scalp, but not his. He grimaced and rubbed off as much as he could.

He surveyed the room. He estimated it to be roughly four meters square, and moved tentatively towards the door. It looked to be of a relatively simple design—a deadbolt with a keypad on the outside.

As he reached through the grating for the pad, he heard a yell of pain, followed by footsteps. A minute later, two guards entered the cell, supporting an ashen Napoleon between them, and threw him down on the floor. "You'll be next for interrogation in a few minutes," one said, in a heavy Latin accent, chuckling, and tossed a towel onto Napoleon's back as he left, presumably for cleaning his injuries. The American agent, still flat on the ground, was almost weeping. Illya could feel the storm clouds, always present in his head, grow darker and more ominous. What had they done to make a man of UNCLE react in this way?

As soon as the men left, Illya knelt beside his friend. He noticed the American's shoelaces were missing, and that his shirt was gone under the towel. He winced at the thought of examining the flesh underneath. "You have to lie down on the bunk, Napoleon. Come now, I'll help you."

After a few false starts, the agents made it to the bunk, and Napoleon stretched out experimentally on his side, wrapping the towel gingerly around himself. A small moan escaped him, and he cringed. "Four ribs broken on this side," he gritted. "One on the other."

Illya sighed. "If that is the case, Napoleon, why are you not lying on your back?"

Napoleon's face shut down. Though normally Illya could read his friend like an open book, the American had no emotion present. "I didn't tell them anything," he said softly. "I…I felt myself slipping at the end there, and I had to end…what they were doing. So I fought back, and they broke my ribs."

"What did they do?" Illya prodded. "What do I have to expect?"

In response, Napoleon sat up, and removed the towel.

Illya was aghast. Even the Russian who could kill without thinking had no stomach for this sort of thing. The skin on the agent's back had been peeled layer by layer until it was impossible to tell what was dried blood and what was muscle tissue. "It's…not pretty," Illya admitted.

Napoleon closed his eyes. He could see the machine they were using, an enlarged copy of a razor blade, slicing away at the demonstration dummy, a large watermelon. At the end of each incision, the blade would move backwards and start afresh, a centimeter lower than before. It made for very painful work, and slow. It would take much too long to heal if the agents wanted to escape as soon as possible, and the longer they stayed, the smaller chance they had of recovering the information.

And then he felt a cool breeze hit the exposed muscle. He reacted instinctively, hunching his shoulders, but immediately brought them down as it made the exposed tendons feel less stiff. He turned his head towards his partner, who smiled, and blew soft air down the agent's back again.

"Just remember next time you want to invite some American girl back to my apartment, she won't do something like this for you," Illya said coyly. "In fact, I doubt she would ask you to do what I want to ask you."

Napoleon felt a small amount of humor come back to him. "And what is that, exactly?"

"Kiss me like you mean it," Illya said softly.

"They ask that frequently," Napoleon admitted, edging closer, turning around to look his companion in the eye.

"And do you give it to them?"

"No."

Their lips met, and stayed there for several long seconds. Napoleon's eyes were almost closed, a lazy habit he had acquired from kissing too many women who meant little to him, while Illya's were shut tight, as if he would be punished at any second, caught doing something wrong. They both knew that any other form of affection, especially in a THRUSH cell, with Napoleon's back in the condition it was, would only increase the likelihood of being caught, so they held hands, then the others' elbows as the sexual tension mounted.

As they broke to breathe, Napoleon whispered, "Do you think I gave it to you then?"

"No," the Russian said, just as softly. "I think you're holding back."

"You're right. I'm going to wait until we're home to give you a full kiss so you and I have no memories tying it to THRUSH or this cell. But that doesn't mean…uh…" Napoleon's words trailed off as Illya kissed the length of his jaw gently. "I—"

"It's fine," Illya said, now panting a little. "I understand. I just…it kills me to see you like this. It has been difficult to keep my emotions in check these last few days." He ran a hand next to Napoleon's face, staring into the eyes inches from his. "I worry about you, you know."

Napoleon smiled. "Just a little?" He returned Illya's favor, kissing up the length of the jaw in soft little pecks, then rounding off at the nose, then carefully finding the open mouth once again. Illya's mouth was stronger and harder this time, pushing back, and Napoleon felt the drive in him rise to the challenge.

Footsteps in the corridor sent the agents apart instantly, and Napoleon instantly lay on his stomach, face to the bunk, groaning loudly, while Illya dabbed at the open skin gently with the towel. He looked up at the guards as they entered the room, face burning ostensibly in anger, though there was a second reason as well, of course.

As the Russian left with his escort, he chanced a look at his partner. He had raised himself on his elbows, and, catching his eye, mouthed _stay strong._ Illya nodded almost imperceptibly. If it came to that, he'd rather die than betray UNCLE, especially now, for more reasons than before.


	7. Act IIIb

Illya surveyed the room in grudging admiration. This branch of THRUSH knew all the tools of intimidation, and used them well. To one side on the table were the photographs the agents had found; on the other, the psychological profiles from UNCLE. He wondered briefly where THRUSH had gotten those, but mentally shrugged. It mattered little at the moment. A desk lamp squatted in one corner, a metaphorical grimace on its face. The room itself was an industrial gray color, like cigarette ash on a sunny day. The light was dim and dank, and the room smelled of tin, or something like it. Illya recognized the smell of blood almost on automatic at this point. Some sort of restraints lay behind the desk—they surely wouldn't try such medieval antics as a rack—but he was forced into a chair facing the desk instead, and securely cuffed to the arms and legs. He sat quietly for several seconds, letting his temper cool a little, then looked into the steady gaze of the stewardess from the plane.

She stared him down, and he her. Neither was willing to break, to give the psychological advantage up. Finally, she coughed, and lowered her gaze to his UNCLE-issued profile. Illya would have smiled if she was not holding classified material that related to his deepest fears and their causes.

She eventually spoke. "You are Russian."

It was such an unexpected question that Illya did not respond for a few moments. He finally replied, "In a way. I'm from the Ukraine."

She weighed this, and sized him up again. "Hm. And you work with an American?"

Illya had a feeling he knew where this was going. "Yes."

"What sort of mission were you on?" Her questions came faster now, sharper. "Why are you in Monela? Do you have the missing negatives? Have you had any outside contact?"

Illya tightened his jaw. "Name: Illya Kuryakin."

One of the men aimed a blow at his jaw, but the woman snapped her fingers, and he withdrew. "Answer my questions, Illya. I can help you."

Sweat was over the agent's eyebrows and nose. "Rank: Number two, section two."

She smiled, but with mouth only. Inwardly, Illya rejoiced—she was getting nervous, and more than that, she was less likely to use her resources well if she did not concentrate. "Come now, it can't be that hard to help another Communist nation. I just need a little information about what you have found."

Illya shook his head, defiantly spitting out, "Serial number: 1428—"

The woman stood and slammed her hands onto the table in front of him, cutting off his words. "You are a spy, Kuryakin. We have no use for spies in Monela. Your friend proved very unhelpful. If you prove to be the same, your Mr. Waverly may be without two of his best field agents within the space of a week."

Illya looked up at her, doing his best to appear amused. "Somehow, you are under the impression that Solo or I will crack. Let me assure you, we would die first. I'm sure Solo told you the same."

"You misunderstand me." She stood, and gestured to the men surrounding the Russian, who unlocked the cuffs and wrestled him onto the apparatus in the corner of the room face-first, under a mechanical contraption of some kind boasting knives and graters of many shapes and sizes. Illya's eyes narrowed as he understood just how Napoleon's back had been in the condition it had.

The woman was speaking again, but he didn't care. He rested the side of his face on the metal, imagining briefly how Napoleon had been here only half an hour before him. His eyes closed for a moment, and he thought he could feel the slightly rough skin of his love's—_could it really be said?—_cheek.

The woman's speech, whatever it was, assuredly ending in "your doom" or something equally pretentious, had finally wound to a halt. Illya reopened one eye. "Are you quite finished?"

She seemed slightly taken aback by the man's insolence, but recovered quickly, and smiled that same smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Oh, I'm sorry to say I haven't started yet, my dear agent. I'll give you a safety word, how about that? When you wish to talk to me, man to woman, and give me the location of the microfilm as well as any information about your outside contact, just say the word—let's call it, oh, UNCLE, for a laugh— and we'll end this."

The Russian shrugged as expansively as he could under his restraints. "Madam, I grew up in Soviet-controlled Kiev. Nothing will ever frighten me as much as what I faced daily in my childhood. And if I die, I die. My family and friends are dead, and the only emotional attachments in this world consist of me helping the landlady take out her garbage."

Her smile vanished entirely.

"Cut off his shirt and jacket," she ordered the men. Illya winced as a knife bigger than his head slashed the polyester from collar to waist in one practiced movement, then the cotton beneath. His undershirt was treated to the same fate, and the sleeves were slashed the same way, but from shoulder to wrist instead. His tie was unknotted from his throat and thrown into the heap with his damaged shirt and jacket.

"Would it not have been more intelligent to remove them before I was strapped down?" he said, with as much of a disparaging air as he could manage. "My superior will not be happy about having to pay for the suit now, you know." The metal frame was colder now, without the insulating layers between him and the surface, and he dulled his senses the best he could against the pain he knew was coming.

The woman studied the agent's lean frame critically, as if examining a particularly difficult puzzle. The man's back was already a maze of scars, and his muscles stood out when he moved, the sign of a determined athlete. The skin stripping would certainly not work on this one. Illya dozed off as she examined his psychological profile. There was nothing lacking—the UNCLE men always did good work—but she failed to find a single tangible weakness she could exploit. Her mouth snapped into a thin line in anger.

"Mr. Kuryakin," she finally said, loud enough for him to reawaken, "I see no physical weaknesses listed in your UNCLE dossier."

Illya half-smiled. "That is correct. I have none."

"But how do you respond to antipsychotic medication?" she followed, closing the folder and placing it on the desk behind her.

Illya's jaw tightened. "So you intend to drive me mad?"

The woman laughed quietly. "No, no, Mr. Kuryakin. I just intend to…loosen up the memory joints, as it were." She brought her face inches from his. "If you tell me what I want to know now..."

The Russian produced an explosive sigh, then shook his head. "I'm sorry, not an option."

A scientist came into the room, holding the needle in two fingers. "Now, you mustn't give him too much at one time, or his heart may give out," he fluttered, trying to monitor the woman. She brushed him away impatiently, and deftly inserted the needle into Illya's arm. He flinched slightly, but did not react.

"It will take several minutes for the effects to begin," she said quietly. "We'll take you back to your cell. Perhaps your companion can help control the mood swings. I'll be back to free you from your own head in three hours."

There was nothing Illya could do but watch helplessly as she walked away.

Note: When I finish this story, I'll write Illya's trippy sequence as a one-shot and have it either at the end or as a separate story.


	8. Act IIIc

It was several minutes later when Napoleon saw his friend come into the cell shaking, supported under the elbows by both guards, nearly fainting from terror or pain, the American couldn't tell. He ran to help Illya, and, holding him up with difficulty, made him lie down on the bunk.

"Illya?" Napoleon whispered. "Hey, Illya. It's Napoleon. Napoleon Solo."

The Russian's vision was spotty. It seemed he would focus for a few seconds, then slide his vision back onto whatever internal nightmare was playing out. Soft whimpers came from his mouth, and his posture was one of a broken child, lost and confused. Napoleon could see Illya wasn't able to focus, but continued to talk softly to him, in the hopes that some of it might get through the memories and emotions playing out.

"I have a plan for getting out of here," Napoleon continued quietly. "I've worked out the shift changes, and I think I can remember how to get out of the cell block. Once we're out, we can run wherever we want."

Illya focused on him again. "Will you hit me?" he asked timidly. It was not the cultured voice of a field agent, but rather the thickly-accented English of a Ukrainian child growing up under Russian control.

"Hit you?" Napoleon responded, nonplussed. "Why would I hit you?"

The Russian lowered his eyes, staring at his feet. "Don't like me. No one likes me."

Napoleon ran a hand through his hair; what could he say? "Illya, I love you. I've only more recently come to know it better as love, of course, but ever since we worked that first case in Bangladesh, I—" Napoleon bit his lip. Not even a case name was clicking with his friend; whatever Illya was on was strong.

"Mama's dead. Dadda's enlisted. Sestra's married and off in Kiev. No one likes me."

"Illya, think! You're a grown man with a cultured accent and a brilliant, learned mind and a wonderful taste in culture. You can wrap women around your finger." Napoleon riffled mentally through the few things he knew Illya might respond to. "You're a Renaissance man! You read textbooks to correct the problems."

"Can't get it wrong. If I'm wrong, then I'll be wrong. Have to read." Illya curled into a ball and stared at the ceiling, mumbling things Napoleon couldn't understand, perhaps in a Russian dialect he learned as a child, as he relived days in seconds from his childhood. Napoleon could do little but watch him for any change, and hope. He couldn't imagine what his partner had gone through as a child. His own life hadn't been a picnic, but from what little he'd gleaned about Kiev during Illya's formative years, it would have been hell to grow up in.

Suddenly, the Russian cried out in pain. Napoleon was instantly inches away from his partner's lips. "What hurts? Where are you hurt?"

_Illya blinked. How strange. One moment he was in Kiev, seeing his father roll off to war with the others from his town, and the next he was here. Wherever here may refer to._

_ He looked down at himself, mildly surprised to see his tie, shirt and jacket intact. He straightened the neckwear slightly, a personal habit he had acquired from Napoleon, then looked around at his surroundings more closely._

_ He was in a tunnel, or perhaps a deep ditch. There was light, a thin strip only, running across the topmost portion like the lights in a train tunnel. He set off along the path indicated, avoiding the damp ground that sucked at his shoes. _

_ Illya emerged from the ditch after a mile or so of brisk walking into the downtown of Moscow. For a moment, he stood still, breathing in the fumes and smog, then smiled. It was good to be home, or close to home, again._

_ Suddenly, a tall man wearing a navy suit and a glum expression walked by, studiously avoiding the agent. Illya recognized 23, a man who often acted as a contact when Napoleon could not communicate. He pulled out his communicator and activated it. "Open Channel D. Napoleon, do you read me?"_

_ "Illya! Thank God! Where are you? I need you!"The tinny voice from the communicator was urgent and high, quite unlike the American's normally measured tones. "I'm on top of the American Embassy."_

_ Illya swore. "I'll be there in three minutes."_

_ "I-I'm not sure I have one."_

_ Illya took the distance at a dead run, then raced up the embassy stairs two at a time, hardly pausing to check his progress. He lunged towards the double doors leading to the roof, and kicked them open. He stopped abruptly as his brain caught up to the tableau ahead of him._

_ A THRUSH helicopter was taking off from the roof of the embassy. Two men were in the cockpit and a third hung by a harness from one of the struts, and was firing at the embassy landing pad. A short distance from his mark, Napoleon was on his hands and knees, coughing blood. The storm clouds in Illya's head broke, but as he went to move forward, to destroy those who had done this, his feet were stuck fast to the concrete just past the door. He pulled at each of them, but it was more than just the shoe; it was if his entire foot was made of concrete._

_ Napoleon looked up and saw him, and smiled briefly. Then the THRUSH man sighted more carefully, and fired three times into the agent's body._

_ Illya shouted and struggled, but he could not break his feet free. "You take everything, you bastards!" he screamed. "Why will you take this from me as well?"_

"No, no, no, no, no," Illya screamed. "No! You take everything, why will you take this from me too?" His spine abruptly straightened from the fetal position, but instead of staying still as Napoleon had hoped, the agent began to thrash in his nightmare.

Biting his lip, the American ran for the cell door. "Get me some water! This man is dying in here!" he shouted. "He's fading fast!"

_Illya wrenched one foot free somehow and moved a little closer, but his partner was still yards away. Napoleon rolled over onto his front, and Illya felt his stomach clench as he saw the damage the bullets had done. The agent's shirt, once a crisp white, was now entirely reddish brown, the color of old blood. _

The guard present, as Napoleon had hoped, did not run towards the alarm, but rather unlocked the door and pushed the agent aside roughly. Napoleon grinned a tight grin and slammed his interlocked hands onto the guard's neck, and then twice onto his lower back. The man dropped like a rock, and Napoleon quickly pulled him all the way into the cell, but kept the door slightly ajar.

On the bunk, Illya continued to scream, though now it was less of a scream and more of a cry of pain; while not any less disconcerting, it was a quieter sound.

"Thank you, love," Napoleon said quietly. He deftly stripped the guard of his uniform, swapped his own clothes for that of THRUSH's, and replaced his own clothes onto the recumbent man. "Now we can really get out of here," he smiled. "Are you ready, Illya?"

The man's eyes were still not tracking and the consciousness that Napoleon had seen earlier was gone. The American ran a hand through his hair in frustration.

_Illya, in desperation, reached a hand towards his partner. The American looked at it oddly, then coughed up more blood. "You were too late, my friend, for me," he said quietly. Illya felt the rage build until—_

Illya's eyes rolled up in his head and he collapsed untidily as Napoleon's neat left found its mark right below the jawbone. Napoleon felt a little twitch of a smile—the Russian was so elegant normally that it was a little amusing to see him be anything less than stylish, even in their dire circumstances. Napoleon picked him up to sling him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry.

To his surprise, Illya weighed almost the same as most of the girls he was in a habit of carrying (for though he tried to avoid making a habit of it, they seemed to like it.) _The man has a black hole for a stomach,_ the agent thought wryly. _Now if we can just get to the second door…_

At the third left, two feet from the doors leading to the outside compound, Napoleon came face-to-face with another guard, who took a double take, shouted "ESCAPING PRISONERS!" at the top of his lungs, and pressed the compound siren. Napoleon laid him out with one swift blow to the jaw, but the damage was done. It would be almost impossible to get Illya and himself out.

Then he spotted something large and olive green and deadly.

"Oh, yes. It's been a while, but I think I can remember how to drive a tank."


End file.
